And still
the music played.
"Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started
and ran down the path as fast as they could go.
But the phonograph was right behind them
and could run and play at the same time. It
called out, reproachfully:
"What's the matter? Don't you love classical
music?"
"No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will
passical the classical and preserve what joy we
have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness,
but your music makes my cotton shrink."
"Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time
tune on the other side," said the machine.
"What's rag-time?"
"The opposite of classical."
"All right," said Scraps, and turned over the
record.
The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble
of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a
moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the
gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other
extreme. It's extremely bad!"
Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.
"If you don't shut off that music I'll smash
your record," threatened Ojo.
The music stopped, at that, and the machine
turned its horn from one to another and said
with great indignation: "What's the matter
now? Is it possible you can't appreciate rag-
time?"
"Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said
the cat; "but I simply can't stand it; it makes
my whiskers curl.
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